Cross my Heart
by Nylah
Summary: When Alex is sent to protect a young physicist, he realizes she could be the catalyst to change his life. But can he really escape the world of espionage and live a normal life? Romance for people who don't like romance! Written in response to a challenge
1. Part 1

A/N: Written in response to a challenge from Chaos Dragon on DeviantArt:

Masterpiece of Romance_  
Ask a local museum if they would put the ring on display with a display card reading that this was the very ring used by you on that particular day to ask her to be your bride._

On top of this, she insisted the story to be an Alex Rider fanfiction. So here you go. Romance Nylah-style :). And yes, this is Alex X OC. Written as a one shot, but since long chapters make reading (and editing :) a bit difficult, I split it in two. The second and final part will be up later.

Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.

* * *

**CROSS MY HEART**

* * *

It's still there. I know it is, I'm sure it is. Because if it isn't... Well. The consequences, they wouldn't be pretty. I have a violent streak, by necessity, and I'm pretty sure I managed to convince the manager of the local museum that it would be beneficial for his health to just leave it there. So it's still there.

Not that I checked.

I'm standing across the street, watching, seeing. People hurry by, eager to get out of the rain, on their way to work, or school. Normal things, everyday things, things that have never been mine. I just stand there, unnoticed because that's what I do, and watch the entrance of the museum. It's open. Nobody has gone inside yet.

The rain today – totally appropriate, reflecting the mood perfectly – is in stark contrast with the sunny day that I first saw her. She was sitting on bench in the park, reading a book. I could see the title, 'Gone with the Wind', and instantly I knew her. Her head was down, long brown hair obscuring her face but that didn't matter, I knew her face. Her face was in the other pictures, spread out on Blunt's desk, but that one, the one with her sitting on the bench in the park, reading her romance novel, was the one that caught my eye. The one that will haunt me forever.

The other pictures showed a plain young woman with an oval shaped face and friendly brown eyes. In most of them, she was smiling shyly, not quiet looking in the lens of the camera, but past it, at somebody standing behind the photographer. Only twenty years of age, she already held a degree in physics. She was brilliant. Only two years older than me.

I will never hold a degree in anything. They don't give out degrees for spying, even if I'm the best one they've got. Sad really. To depend on an eighteen year old old man to save the world. I know now that this is what I am, this is what I'm supposed to be, this is what I _want_ to be. But back then, back when I tried to wiggle my way into her life, I was still rebelling, still trying to squeeze my way out. Only one year ago. Today.

"All right," I said to Blunt, gently placing the picture back on the desk, "When do I start?"

Blunt smiled that thin smile of is, not a real smile, but a carefully crafted facial expression to show he was human, that he could smile when the social situation demanded he did. I saw right through him, just as he saw right through me. He already knew then, had known since I was fourteen, that this was my life, that I would do whatever he asked me to, just as long as I could continue with the subterfuge, the jobs, the undercover work. It's addicting, in a way. Whenever I'm doing it, I hate it. Whenever I'm not doing it, I yearn for it. But I digress.

"As soon as possible," Blunt said, collecting the pictures, carefully stacking them and shoving them back into the thin folder, "She's in Paris already, your flight leaves at four." He handed me the folder. "Plenty of time to read all of this and see Smithers."

"I was going to see Jack," I said, mentally calculating the time I would need to get through London traffic at this hour – noon – and the time needed to quickly catch up and excuse myself again to still be in time for my flight. I hadn't seen her in six months, three of which I had spent at Breacons Beacons, and three in the Columbian jungle, trying to catch a drug lord that had some interesting and damaging hobbies.

The only positive thing I had gotten out of that one was a nice tan.

"You'll have to do that when you get back," Blunt said decisively, "There's no time."

I scowled at him, but let it rest. Protesting, I knew, was futile. Still, I had always followed my own path. I would do so again, and there really wasn't anything for him to do about it. I would go see Smithers real quick, sneak out the back door – yes, of course the Royal and General has a back door; should have used it that day I got shot too – and hop in the tube. By the time they found out I was gone I'd have changed trains three times and them catching me would be nearly impossible.

Of course, as I found out later, they weren't above a little rough-housing and power display. I was merrily chatting with Jack, unobtrusively glancing at the clock on the wall and trying to steer the conversation into the direction of, "by the way, I'm leaving again, see you around", when the back door burst open, shattering the glass. There really was no need for that, because it wasn't locked, but that wasn't the point. They came in, three of them, clad in ordinary, unremarkable clothes, jeans, t-shirts, jackets. Nobody would have recognized them for what they were, namely MI6 agents. They had me slammed against the wall with two guns at my head in no time, and, worse, as I saw when I glanced over my shoulder, they were threatening Jack.

She was on her knees, a stunned and frightened expression on her face. One of the men had his hand on her head, grabbing her hair. His other hand held a gun against her head, a Sig Sauer, I noted dimly.

The last man to enter was Crawley.

As ever dressed in his immaculate business suit, he surveyed the situation, looking around the colourful and messy kitchen – Jack had been trying out one of her recipes – and the volatile situation in it. I struggled a little, which caused one of the men to tighten his grip around my arms, pushing them up higher. I groaned and remained quiet.

"Alex," Crawley said, "I think your orders were to go to the airport immediately after you had seen Smithers."

"Hmpf," I said, as the man twisting my arms twisted them a little further, "I'm not his dog."

"No," Crawley said, "You're not. Because his dog listens to him."

"He has a dog?" I asked, genuinely surprised, and was rewarded with another painful jerk on my arms.

"Alex...," Jack said from the floor, voice shaking, "What's going on? Did you do something?"

"Yeah," I said, "I went and visited you because I haven't seen you in six months, and they were going to send me off again this afternoon."

I tried to twist my head in such a way that I could see both Crawley and Jack, but that proved to be impossible. From the corner of my eyes, I saw Crawley nod, and the MI6 men stepped away from me. I turned around, rubbing my arms. The one holding Jack was slow to comply, but moved when I glared at him. I have a special glare for situations like these, and it works like a charm. I felt pretty satisfied with that, until I saw Jack's face.

Her face was ashen. And she didn't look at Crawley, or the men that had restrained me and each held a gun to my head, or even the man that had grabbed her hair, pushed her down on her knees. She looked at _me_.

That was when I remembered I had vowed to leave her out of all of this, and never let her see what I'd become.

"Jack," I said, "It'll be all right. I'll be back soon, and we'll catch up properly, all right?"

She didn't say anything, and Crawley frowned at me, before signalling two of the men to grab my arms and force me out the door. For Jack's sake, I let them, though my hands itched to grab their stupid heads and slam them together, something I was perfectly capable of. And also for Jack's sake, I quelled the murderous thoughts that kept forcing their way into my head, for fear it would show on my face. An hour later I was in the plane, heading towards Paris.

Like I said, back then, I still thought I had control over my own life.

* * *

Paris in the summer. What can I say? People everywhere, strolling down the wide lanes, down the Jardin de Tuileries, sitting at the fountains near the glass pyramids of the Louvre museum, populating the ridiculously expensive terraces on the Avenue de Champs _Elysées_. A light breeze dispelled most of the oppressive heat, making it pleasant to be outside, simply enjoying summer. Lots of children in the parks, their parents looking on indulgently, teenagers, roller-skating down the steps and slopes at the Trocadero, students, laying down in the grass with their heads on their books as if trying to learn by osmosis...

I love this place. It's like a second home to me. Ian took me to Paris many times, and at some point we even lived here for six months, during which time he refused to speak English, forcing me to struggle with my French. I learned though. It was wonderful. Back then. Looking back on it now, I can see he was training me even then, but somehow that knowledge doesn't taint the memory. I love Paris.

We were walking along the Seine, quietly, about a meter apart. She hadn't spoken a word since we met, and I had been trying to fill up the void between us by pointing out the sights to her, talking about restaurants and museums and other mindless chatter about anything I could come up with. And then I finally ran out of things to talk about and asked her about herself, but she only replied in monosyllables. Which left me with exactly nothing to work with. Finally, exasperated, I stopped next to a book stall, grabbed her hand and forced her to a stand still.

"Look," I said, "This isn't going to work. Nobody will believe I'm your boyfriend if the only thing I know about you is that your name is Teresa Miller. Come on, talk to me. Tell me what you like, what you dislike, what your favourite colour is, the works. What do you like to be called, Tessa? Or just plain Teresa?"

She stared at me, then shrugged and looked away. She looked extremely vulnerable, and I squashed the feeling of wanting to wrap my arms around her. I was pretty sure she'd freak out if I did that, and to tell the truth, it freaked me out as well. Somehow this girl – woman, I told myself, a woman, she was older than I was – brought up a strong notion of wanting to protect her from the world. She was in the wrong business for that.

"Teresa," she said, "Just call me Teresa."

"All right," I said, "What else?"

She started walking again, and I watched her go before quickly catching up again. Walking next to her again, I reached out and grabbed her hand. She tensed.

"Practice," I said, "You'll have to make it look natural. I'm just holding your hand, Teresa, there's nothing to it."

She relaxed somewhat, and we walked for a while. Finally, she spoke up again.

"When that man, Blunt, asked me to do this... I wasn't sure. But he convinced me it was important, so I did as he asked. I never thought Lucardi would actually hire me and I... was scared. I'm not a spy, and I was afraid I would just blather it all out the first time he'd ask about me."

I nodded. "So you asked for backup, a body guard. That's me. Don't worry, Teresa, I have your back."

It felt odd, saying that. Before, it had been other people, saying it to me. And then either really having my back or just plain lying to me. Point Blank came to mind, unbidden, as always when reflecting rather bitterly on the trustworthiness of MI6. But now it was me offering to look out for someone else, and it felt good. I vowed not to let her down right then and there.

She nodded shyly at me and then looked at me questionably. "You're... pretty young though," she said, "When Mr Blunt said he'd provide me with someone to act as my boyfriend, I thought... well, an older man. I wasn't sure that that wouldn't be suspicious."

"Hence me," I said, grinning, "I'm never suspicious. I'm too young."

I could see a million questions brimming in that brilliant mind, but she just looked at me and shook her head. We walked in silence again, a comfortable silence this time. Every now and then she glanced at me, but she didn't let go of my hand and it was kind of nice. Finally, she spoke up again.

"When I saw you... But you really are it, aren't you, an agent. I mean, you've done this before."

I blinked, thought about it and then shrugged. "Yes, I suppose you could call me that. An agent."

She looked at me, puzzled, but I didn't feel like explaining myself.

"You'll have to take my word for it," I said, trying to reassure her that I knew what I was doing, "I can handle myself, and I can help you with what you need to do, as long as you don't expect me to actually try and get what you're doing."

I wasn't sure I convinced her, but we were getting more and more comfortable, and for now, that was enough. She talked, then, telling me about herself, how she had always felt like an outsider, being too smart for her age, until she found herself studying physics at the age of sixteen, graduating two months ago with honours. Then, while looking around, shifting through the offers she had gotten, all from prestigious research facilities and universities, how MI6 had approached her, asking her to pursue the one offer she had put aside almost immediately, of Professor Lucardi at Sorbonne, because they had traced some of the money Lucardi was funded with back to Scorpia.

I listened to her talk about her family, her brother, her parents, and filed all that information away. Most of it I knew already, of course, by reading her file, but hearing her talk about it made it real. I could picture her now, picture her life. I tightened my grip on her hand. She stopped talking, and we sat down on a bench.

"What about you?" she asked, "I have to know about you too."

Quickly, I sifted through my cover, picking out details, ordering them. They were mostly half-truths, in order for me to easily improvise when a subject came up that wasn't covered by my cover.

"Not much to tell," I said, "I'm an orphan, so no parents, no close relatives. Finished secondary school last year, entered the military. I'm on leave for three months, so I could join you here in Paris. When I get back, I'll probably be sent out to Afganistan."

"Really?" she asked, "You'll go to Afganistan?"

I thought about that. Could be true. Who knew where they'd send me, after all. I shrugged. "Honestly, I have no idea. Anyway, we met through a mutual friend, a Clive Barclay."

She nodded pensively, recognizing the name of a former fellow student. "Are you really in the army?" she asked.

I laughed. "God no. Though I do have some military training. I'll be all right in that respect, should anybody try to test me on that. Which they won't. Up until now, nobody has ever questioned my covers."

"So how old are you, really?"

"Nineteen," I lied.

"OK."

A boat passed by, and we watched it quietly. Discretely, I looked at my watch, to determine if it was already time for lunch. I was getting hungry.

"And just how much of what you've told me is really true?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Some of it. It doesn't matter. That's my story, and I'll stick by it, so you should too."

I got up, held out my hand and she allowed me to pull her to her feet, smiling. This time, I gently put my arm around her shoulders, and she let me, although I could feel her tense up again.

"Three months is enough, right?" I asked her as we left the river and headed towards Quartier Latin to find a restaurant, "To find out what he's doing?"

She nodded, but looked uncertain. I smiled at her, relaxed, and steered her towards the nearest restaurant, my mind already on what I wanted for lunch. She let me lead her, settling more comfortably into my hold of her. The rest of the day went by in a pleasant haze, and when we finally returned to our tiny apartment in Orsay, south of Paris, where the science faculty of the Universite de Paris-Sud was located. It was a one room apartment, with a queen-sized bed in the corner, a tiny kitchenette in the other and a small bathroom which contained a shower, a sink and a toilet miraculously cramped into two square meters. Things were going to be a bit awkward the coming months, but we would just have to live with it.

Not that I minded too much at that point.

* * *

Things went sort of smoothly from then on. Teresa would go to work, to the university, and I'd laze about the apartment, read, surf the internet or go out for a run to keep in shape. Each day, around noon, I'd go to the university and either wait for her outside or walk right into her small office which she shared with two graduate students, her desk crammed between the door and the wall so she could barely squeeze around it to get to her seat. I had asked her about it, the less than adequate work space she had been assigned, and she had laughed, saying she was hardly ever there anyway. She seemed to enjoy herself after the first two weeks, when she finally became a little more secure in what she was doing. She'd come home late, we'd share a dinner I cooked for her, chat, and then she went off to bed while I took the couch.

After two weeks, I was ready to scream.

It should have been enjoyable. For once, I had a lot of time to myself. During the day, I could do whatever I pleased, hang around, look around the small town. During lunch and in the evening, we would discuss her work, how she was slowly grasping what the man was trying to accomplish, the information she lacked and how to get it, which was kind of interesting but also way out of my league.

I had been good in science, in school, but now I found my education lacking. Of course, I had never finished school in the first place, but that had never hindered me. It did now. She had to repeatedly explain basic things to me, things I should have learned in school, and I could feel her curiosity grow. I avoided her questions though, deflecting them by asking questions of my own about things she liked to talk about (physics), or start an account of what I had done that day (nothing much). But that wasn't the worst of it.

Having so much free time on my hands got me thinking. And too much thinking inevitably brought out memories I'd rather have stayed buried. And in fact, had managed to push so far away that up until then, I had hardly thought about them. At the end of the third week, I had gotten my first, terrifying, flashback.

It was the cramped apartment that did it. I had been sitting on the couch, somewhere in the afternoon, reading. Then, for a moment, I had glanced up, and had noticed just how close the wall was. I had just stared at it, noticing the cracks in it, the hardly visible stain near the bottom, and sweat had broken out. I no longer was in our third floor apartment, I was in another place, another cramped place, a cell. I was alone and scared out of my wits, listening to the screams coming from somewhere in the building, knowing that at some point they would come for me too...

And then I snapped out of it, jumped up and fled the apartment, to return only when I was sure Teresa would be there. I slept badly that night.

The second time, she was there for it. I simply panicked in the shower when suddenly the shower changed into a tunnel, a tunnel I had to crawl through to get to the Stormbreaker facilities, only this time I got stuck. Without knowing it, I had sunk to the floor, water splashing down on me, and only her pounding on the door snapped me out of it. She looked at me worriedly when I finally got out of the bathroom, and I mumbled something about forgetting the time and left it at that.

The next day I called Blunt.

"I want another assignment," I said as soon as I finally managed to get him on the line, "Nothing is happening, Teresa is handling herself just fine, she doesn't need me."

Blunt was silent for a moment. Then, "Are you saying you want out of this because you are _bored_?"

I winced. He made me sound like a whining teenager. "No. Yes. Look, I'm just sitting here, she's doing all the work. Surely there must be something I can do. Maybe break into Lucardi's house or something, see if he's got anything to hide."

"Would you recognize anything suspicious if you saw it?" he asked, "A particularly suspicious formula, for instance? A paper outlining the working of those theta rays?"

"No thanks to you," I grumbled, "You took me out of school. Thanks to you, I'm just stupid."

"You mean you feel stupid next to Teresa," he said coolly, "Can't stand anybody being smarter than you, can you, Alex?"

I didn't answer that one because one, I'd probably blow up and be extremely loud while doing that, unwise as I was in a very public place, namely the square in front of the building Teresa worked, and two, because his words held an uncomfortable truth to them. Teresa was smart, her quick mind not only managing to grasp complex and specialized subjects like physics, but in everything she did. She had learnt French in under two months before she came here, and was now almost as fluent as I was. Any TV game show we watched, be it in French or in English, she'd have all the answers. She attacked crosswords in the newspaper with enthusiasm, finishing them before I even started to ponder the first word. She solved a Rubik's cube almost without really looking at it (I'd seen her do it while at the same time reading the newspaper).

It was scary. And intriguing. Especially since she seemed to be totally unaware of just how intimidating she was. She'd laugh at my bewildered face at yet another one of her inadvertent demonstrations of the agility of her brain, and tell me it didn't matter, it was just a trick.

Yes, I most certainly felt stupid in her presence. My only consolation was that I wasn't the only one.

"Alex?"

I shook myself out of my contemplations of my brilliant room-mate, argued some more with Blunt, to no avail, and finally hung up when I saw Teresa coming out of the building, this time in the company of her two co-workers, a girl named Julie, and a young man named Gaston.

She smiled at me, quickly pecked me on the cheek as always when in company of strangers, and the four of us had an enjoyable lunch in a nearby café. I listened to their animated conversation, their laughter, their easy teasing and realized that they were living in a different world. Their world was one of puzzles to solve, discussions on their work or on politics, plans to travel, see the world. My world was dark and treacherous, one wrong move would get me killed, one mistake could cost innocent people their lives.

The oddest feeling came over me then and looking back on it now, I blame it on the weeks of forced inactivity. I felt like standing on a threshold, somehow. Their world, I could almost touch it, feel it, and suddenly I was convinced that I only had to reach out, had to touch it, and it would be mine. I could have all of this, I could work hard, take some courses at the university... It'd be tough, but doable. I wasn't above a little hard work and I knew I wasn't dumb. Who knew what I would have been doing now if MI6 hadn't interfered when I was fourteen...

I fell silent and stared at Teresa, who seemed to be moving and talking in slow motion, gesturing wildly and almost knocking down her glass of juice. Her eyes sparkled as she turned to look at me, hand still in mid gesture, a questioning look on her face. Then she raised her eyebrows, and the happiness in her eyes changed to worry.

"Alex?" she asked, "Something wrong?"

The others stopped talking as well and they all looked at me. I blinked, and realized that whatever was showing on my face, it wasn't pleasant. Quickly, I smiled.

"Nah," I said, "Just thinking. Are we done yet?"

They all started feeling their pockets to find their money, and we split the bill evenly. I walked Teresa back to the university, a little behind Gaston and Julie, my arm firmly around her shoulders. It felt comfortable. I didn't allow myself to think too much about it, but simply enjoyed the moment until finally she had to go into the building. At the top of the stairs she looked back at me, a strange look in her eyes, and then she was gone.

* * *

That night I got an urgent phone call from Blunt, ordering me out. "We've lost contact with one of our agents," he said, "You're closest. Go check."

Awake instantly, I listened to his instructions as I groped around for my clothes. I could feel my excitement rise, the rush of adrenaline that preceded every dive into the unknown, and it wasn't until I saw Teresa, sitting up in her bed with bleary eyes, staring at the gun in my hands, that I realized how it must look to her.

"Hey," I said softly, "Go back to sleep. Something came up. I should be back by morning."

Her eyes widened. "Something to do with us?" she asked, and I could hear the fear in her voice.

I shook my head. "No, it's got nothing to do with what you're doing. This is just something I have to check."

"And you need a gun for that?" Disapproval in her voice, this time.

I shrugged. "I'm doing _my_ job," I said, "You do yours."

I holstered the gun, put on a light jacket to hide it from sight and grabbed the keys to the rental car we'd had to our disposal for the past weeks. We had used it only once. Paris public transportation was easier and usually quicker. At the door I stopped and turned to look at her, trying to look reassuring.

"Look," I said, "Don't worry. You're fine. I should be back real soon, all right?"

"It's not _me_ I'm worried about," she said.

I had no answer to that, so I just stared at her. Then I shrugged, waved, and rushed out the door.

* * *

Forty eight hours later I stumbled through the door of our small apartment, took two steps and crashed on the couch face down. I laid there for a moment before realising I couldn't breathe that way, so I turned my head sideways, barely suppressing a groan. For a while, I just concentrated on the nice, soft cushions of the couch, the fact that it was nice and dark in the apartment so my aching head wouldn't have to deal with any bright light, and the quietness of the place. Then my thoughts shot to Teresa and I groaned internally, knowing I had to get up and check if she was all right.

I was just about to push myself up when a soft hand pushed me down again. I reacted instantly. In one fluid movement, I flung myself from the couch, grabbed the person touching me by the wrists and pushed her all the way against the wall. She let out a light squeak, but otherwise remained quiet, staring at me with huge, shocked eyes.

"Teresa," I said, breathing heavily, "Don't do that."

With that, I let go, stepped back and fell down on the couch again, backwards this time. She remained standing for a moment, surveying me. Then, when it seemed I wouldn't attack her again, she approached carefully and sat down next to me.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

I barked out a short laugh. "Yes, I'm fine," I said, "Just tired. Haven't slept since... since I left here, I guess. What day is it?"

"Saturday, technically," she said, "Come on, get up."

"What? I'm going to sleep, Teresa."

"Yes, but you're going to do it in a proper bed."

She reached, grabbed my arm and started tugging. I resisted.

"I'm fine," I said.

"No you're not, you're exhausted, and..." she suddenly let go and stared at her hand. "What's this?"

She jumped up, rushed to the wall and flicked on the light. I groaned for real this time and squeezed my eyes shut, so I couldn't see her reaction to what was undoubtedly blood on her hand, blood that had been oozing out of the shallow stab wound in my arm. It looked worse than it was, but of course she didn't see it that way.

"Take off your jacket," she ordered, and I painfully obliged, squinting through my eyelashes at her blurry figure. She was wearing a dark blue long t-shirt and that was it. My eyes travelled down her thighs, and for some reason I didn't have as much trouble focusing now.

"Hey," she said, slapping me slightly, "Keep your eyes where they belong."

"Hmm," I said. The concussion made me slightly flippant. "I think they're exactly where they're supposed to be."

"Come on, Alex, help me out here," she said, tugging my arm once again.

She finally managed to coax me into the bathroom, out of my clothes and into the shower. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realised just where the sudden protectiveness came from: I looked like hell. Eyes too bright in a deathly pale face, nasty cut in my left upper arm, numerous bruises from falling down a flight of stairs. All in all, I thought, I'd come off lightly.

After I finished showering and had gotten semi-dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a clean t-shirt, she pushed me towards her bed. Without protesting, I fell down in it and allowed her to tuck me in. It felt nice. I laid back and watched her scurry around the once again dark apartment, trying to collect some blankets and a pillow so she could sleep on the couch. It seemed unfair somehow.

"Hey," I said.

She stopped and looked at me. I was floating, the world was swirling around me, and somehow she was in the centre of that swirling. I patted the empty spot beside me.

"Plenty of room," I said.

She just stood there, staring at me. I felt myself drifting away. Everything became hazy.

"Don't worry," I slurred, "Not gonna try anything."

The world dissipated, to be replaced by a flurry of greys, a river of random thoughts and images and then nothing.

* * *

I woke up once. A greyish light was already peeking through the curtains. I was extremely comfortable, until I moved. Pain shot through my limbs and for a moment I just laid there, breathing slowly, waiting for the pain to subside. It did, eventually. I resolved to remain as motionless as possible.

Next to me, almost touching, I could feel another warm presence. I listened to her breathing for a while until I drifted off again.

And that is how I ended up in her bed.

* * *

We never spoke of it. We acted it, of course, like we had all that time, holding hands in public, showing affection. I'd go and meet her for lunch, sometimes meeting outside, sometimes pulling her out of her work inside the building, creating the ground work for the people in there for seeing me move around the building irregularly. And if our greetings became a bit more passionate, it was to fool the onlookers, her co-workers, her boss. Nothing really changed.

After that first assignment, Blunt seemed to think I could actually handle myself on my own, because a week later he called again, having me do some surveillance in Geneva because the cover of the agent in place had been compromised. So I left her again, reassuring her that I would be back and ignoring her worried face. Things went smoothly, and I returned unharmed two days later. Lovemaking was extra passionate that night.

As I was staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows move from the moonlight that shone through a crack in the curtains, she was trailing the scar on my chest. There were other scars there, of course, but the one right above my heart stood out. It was so obviously a bullet wound that I always had trouble explaining it away. Usually, I opted for heart surgery when I was young. She didn't fall for that one, though.

Placing her hand over the scar, she lifted her head from my shoulder and looked at me.

"Who are you, really," she asked.

Shrugging was sort of hard, so I just shook my head. "Does it matter?"

She thought about that. "Yes," she said, "It does. I can see the outside, the though guy who can actually be romantic when he puts mind into it, but some of it is an act. You live by subterfuge, by telling lies. And there's the violence. It scares me."

I pulled her closer and kissed her on her head. "It shouldn't. I'm here to protect you, among other things. I won't let anything happen to you."

"I'm not worried about _me_! I told you that."

"Well, you shouldn't worry about me either. I can handle myself just fine."

"I can see that." She sighed. "It's just... you're so young. And you're smart. Why... are you doing this? I could see you go to college, you're smart enough to get in on a grant, and yet, here you are, not even finished secondary school, playing... spy."

"It's not a game," I said, ignoring all her other comments.

She let out an exasperated sigh. "Talking with you is a near impossibility, do you know that?"

I grinned. "I'm a guy. Talking with guys is always a near impossibility."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. I can't have a relationship based on sex alone. I need to understand you, talk to you, and you need to talk back to me and tell me what you feel, what you think, and stop answering with 'that's classified' because that drives me crazy."

My turn to sigh. "Look," I said, turning my head and looking at her slightly cross eyed because of her proximity, "You knew this when we started this. I can't help myself. What I do, that really is classified, I'm not allowed to tell you anything about it even if MI6 _would_ approve of our relationship, which they won't."

"That doesn't mean I have to accept an 'I'm fine' when you clearly aren't. What you do... and you're nineteen..."

"Eighteen," I muttered absent mindedly.

That quieted her. I could feel her body move restlessly against mine. This wasn't finished.

"Are you a criminal?" she finally asked.

I laughed. "No."

"Oh."

Silence again. I felt myself drifting off, though part of me kept scanning the apartment for non-existent irregularities, an annoying habit I couldn't seem to get myself free off. No matter how many times I told myself I was safe somewhere, there was always the feeling that something could attack out of nowhere, that I should be prepared. Finally, when I had convinced myself that the moving shadows really were that, moving shadows, and had started to really drift off, she spoke again.

"Would you... would you give it all up? For me?"

Instantly, I was wide awake again. I opened my eyes and stared up at the ceiling. The shadows were still there, same shape, same place. Shadows in my mind too, covering up the more horrific memories. Memories that had caused uncomfortable flashbacks during the past weeks, until I had gone back to work again. I was fine now.

Would I give it all up?

Four years ago, I would have said yes. Fourteen year old me hadn't been prepared for all of this, no matter what my training had been. Spying isn't romantic, it isn't glamorous, and James Bond is so far away from reality the films make me laugh. It's a shady world, with dirty tricks, shifting loyalties and lots and lots of betrayal. People are being used, discarded when no longer needed, left to their own devices. Nobody fights fair.

Could I give it up? I remembered sitting in the restaurant, watching Teresa and her friends, feeling disconnected from her world. I had felt it then, the threshold. I only needed to step over it, turn my back on my world and enter hers. I could go back to school, maybe even get my A-levels, go to college... What would it be like, living in her world?

"Yes," I said, "I would."

* * *

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down on something in her lap. I moved, rolled and then reached up, letting my hand trail over her back. She shivered.

"Don't do that," she said, sounding as if her mind was somewhere else completely.

I let my hand drop down on the bed and contented myself with just looking at her. She had a frown on her face, and her eyes were moving with quick, short jerks, reading something really fast. She was biting her lip, and I was just about to reach up again and touch her face when she looked at me.

"Something struck me last night," she said, "All the while I was thinking I was missing something, and I was right, but it wasn't me, it's him."

I popped myself up on one elbow and looked at her quizzically. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean, I thought I just didn't get it, and I was trying so hard to understand what he was doing," she said, and I could see the remnants of the insecurity in her face. "But he's leaving something out, he's not giving me all the data, look."

She pointed at a graph on her printout. I smiled. "You do know I don't have a clue as to what you're talking about, do you?" I said.

She blushed. "I'm sorry, it's just that I'm so used to talking to people who understand..."

"Instead of stupid old me," I said.

She looked hurt. "You know that's not true. You're not stupid. And I didn't mean it like that." She shook her head and gestured impatiently. "But I think I need more information. Professor Lucardi's research. Otherwise, what he's doing makes absolutely no sense."

"I believe you," I said, "Tell me what you're looking for, and I'll get it for you."

She was silent for a moment, looking pensive.

"It'd be on his computer," she said finally, "Do you think you could get in on it?"

I let myself drop on the bed again and tugged at her arm to pull her down with me. She squeaked as a large portion of the stack of papers on her lap fell to the floor, but I silenced her protesting with a kiss. When she stopped resisting me I smiled into the kiss.

"Sure I can," I said.

* * *

"There's someone I want you to meet," I said a few days later.

We were sitting on a bench in a park, a variety of sandwich wrappings between us, sipping wine from a carton cup. Not very romantic, but very private, and privacy was what we needed. The boyfriend cover turned out to be a great excuse to show up at odd hours to pull her out from her work, and go basically anywhere without anybody feeling the slightest desire to join us. Simply stating that we wanted to be alone was enough for them to smile and wink at us, before leaving us love birds to ourselves. I could simply show up in the evening too and we would sit in her office, and although this was slightly scandalous, nobody thought much about it.

On one such an occasion, I had placed a key logger on her boss's computer, allowing me to review everything he had typed. Including user names and passwords. I was planning on retrieving the device that night, using a visit to Teresa as an excuse to be in the building.

"Oh?" she said, "Who? Wait a minute..." She stared at me, an alarmed look on her face. "They're replacing you, aren't they... they found out about us, and they're sending in a new guy..."

"No no, that's not it," I said, "I want you to meet my... sister."

"Sister? _Your_ sister? You mean, a real sister, or an MI6 sister?"

"Well," I said, "She's not really my sister, but she's the closest thing to a sister I've got. She has been taking care of me since I was seven. I've known her for a long time, and I really think of her as my sister."

She stared at me. "Are you saying," she said slowly, "That you're introducing me to somebody from your personal life?"

"I guess I am," I said.

I had thought about it ever since she had asked me if I would give up spying for her. I knew I wasn't supposed to let Teresa in on my life, and that having her meet Jack would be a serious breach in security, but I didn't care. This was my life. If I was going to do this, I needed Jack to be in on it.

"All right," Teresa said, looking interested.

We cleaned up and dumped our trash in the nearest dustbin, and then I escorted her back to the university, where I kissed her goodbye.

"Stay late again tonight," I muttered in her ear when we were hugging each other like we were saying goodbye for a long time instead of for a few hours, "I need to retrieve that key logger."

She let go of me and stepped back, raising her eyebrows. "Already? You only put it there last night."

"It's enough. He'll have logged in today, right? I can't risk anybody finding it."

She nodded, then looked over her shoulder at the entrance of the building. "I could get it. That way you won't have to come in and nobody will get suspicious when they see you in professor Lucardi's office."

"I thought you didn't want to do things like that?" I asked, "That that was what you had me for? To do the dirty work?"

She laughed. "Getting a little device from a computer is hardly dirty work. It's just plugged in between the keyboard and the computer, right? I only have to pull it out and then replace the plug of the keyboard into the computer. I can do that."

She turned and walked back into the building. I stared after her. She had slowly been gaining confidence in her work, in her life here in Orsay. Strangely enough, even with her brains, the way she had waltzed through school and university, she still felt insecure about herself. She'd call herself stupid more often than not, berating herself for little mistakes. She always forgot her keys, her mobile, her purse. She devoured books in her sparse free time, most of them romance novels. And then that revelation, in the middle of the night, that she didn't understand professor Lucardi's work because the man was withholding information...

I smiled, turned and walked away. Not home. To find a jewellery store.

* * *

Jack practically crushed me in a fierce hug, right under the Eiffel Tower. I hugged her back, a little less forceful, and then tried to pry myself loose.

"Jack, I need to breathe," I said.

She let go then, took a step back and looked at me, tilting her head a little like she always did when I had gotten myself in trouble somehow. Teresa and I had taken the train to Paris in the morning, visited the Notre Dame cathedral, had strolled along the Seine, doubling back a few times, until I had made absolutely sure we weren't followed, and then had gone up to the first floor of the Eiffel Tower, where I had watched the park for an hour until Jack arrived. As by my instructions, she had sat down on a bench, taken out a book and had started reading, while I scrutinized everybody that was in her vicinity. Then she had left, walking back towards the Seine, allowing me to see if anybody was following her. Nobody did. Exactly one hour later, we met next to the lift.

"Oh, Alex," she said, "You look... fantastic." She punched my shoulder and I grabbed it in mock hurt. "Happy, even. I haven't seen you smile like this in ages."

"Yeah, well," I said, looking at Teresa standing a few metres away from us, fidgeting with her handbag, "I guess it's the company. Who wouldn't want to walk around with two beautiful women at his side?"

Teresa blushed at that, and Jack just punched me again. "Flatter will get you nowhere," she said, and then, looking at Teresa, "You didn't say anything about a... friend?"

Teresa's blush deepened, and Jack turned to look at me, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. I resisted the urge to squirm under her scrutiny and looked back steadily. She stepped forward, grabbed my arm and dragged me away from a now bewildered looking Teresa. When we were out of earshot, she stopped.

"Are you insane?" she whispered.

I glanced around. Her whisper was so loud it attracted attention. Jack noticed it too, because she relaxed a little and let go of my arm.

"Aren't you on an assignment?" she continued, in a much softer whisper, "Should you be involving yourself with anybody?"

"She _is_ my assignment," I said, "We're... um... investigating something."

She stared at me. "And you're _sleeping_ with her?"

"I'm not a child any more, Jack," I said, slightly annoyed, "Besides, it's not like I haven't done that before."

Jack shook her head. "Too much information, Alex," she said. She looked at Teresa, and then at me again. "I don't get it," she said, "Why are you dragging me into this?"

"Well," I said, grabbing her arm, "I wanted you to meet her. Come on. Let's have lunch. I'm starving."

I dragged the slightly bewildered looking Jack back to a now very nervous looking Teresa, and we set out to find a restaurant that wasn't packed. After a few awkward questions, the two women seemed to be getting along brilliantly, and I relaxed a little. I kept checking if we were being followed though, and subjected Jack to a fairly detailed interrogation to find out if she had noticed anything odd on her way here.

"So," Jack said, after the waiter had taken our orders, "You're working at the university, and Alex is your boyfriend."

Teresa looked at me. I shrugged. Jack knew what I did, even if I left out the details. A lot of details. She turned back to Jack.

"Yes," she said simply.

Jack nodded pensively, looked at me, shrugged, and changed the subject to an embarrassing but hilarious incident from my youth. The rest of the day went by smoothly, and after we had dined in a small restaurant in Montmartre, we strolled around the square with the artists drawing portraits. One particularly persistent artist kept following us and showing us his work, and on impulse I pulled Teresa back and sat her down on the rickety folding chair the guy was carrying around with him. He bullied her into smiling serenely and she did, shooting me awkward glances every now and then. I watched her features appear on paper, standing a little bit away from them. Jack came and stood next to me.

"Tell me, why am I here, really," she said.

"I wanted to see you. Last time was sort of brief."

She sighed. "I didn't appreciate that," she said, "It made me feel..."

"Insignificant? Out of control of your own life? Helpless?" I asked.

She was silent. I could feel her look at me.

"I suppose so," she said.

I looked down at my shoes, hands in my pockets. "Then you know how I feel all the time."

The artist was chatting happily with Teresa at that point, and she answered in monosyllables, trying to keep the smile frozen on her face. She was starting to look a little desperate, but the artist, as no doubt his intention had been, was starting to attract attention of a small crowd of tourists.

"What are you saying, Alex," Jack asked.

A bright flash made Teresa wince. The tourist wielding the camera smiled happily at her and I scowled at him.

"I want out," I said, "I've had it up till here with the whole spying business. It's making me sick."

As I was speaking, I was pondering the truth of my words. It did make me sick every now and then, sometimes quite literally. But there also always was that rush of excitement, the adrenaline that pumped through my veins whenever I landed myself in a dangerous situation again. And the feeling of triumph when I made it out, when the mission was a success... would I really give that all up?

"What has she got to do with that?" Jack asked.

Teresa shifted her head a little and looked at me. The artist started chiding her for moving, and she quickly moved back into position.

"I'm going to ask her to marry me," I said.

That shocked Jack into silence. I purposely kept my eyes on the artist, who was now beckoning Teresa to come and see her portrait which, I had to admit, wasn't half bad. He'd managed somehow to capture the insecurity in her smile while portraying her outward confidence. I avoided looking at Jack and stepped forward to join in the admiration. Already, another girl was sitting down on the fold out chair, straightening her skirt and pushing her hair behind her ears. The artist rolled up the drawing, handed it to Teresa with a flourish and I paid him. Then the three of us walked into the direction of the stairs leading down from the Basilique du _Sacré_-_Cœur_. As we started down the steps, Jack grabbed my arm, letting us fall behind a little.

"Alex..." she said, "Are you serious?"

I dug into my pocket and, with a short glance in Teresa's direction to see if she was looking back at us, retrieved the small box I had been carrying around. Quickly, I opened it and showed her the contents, the small ring with the three tiny diamonds I had bought a few days previously. Before Jack could reach out and touch it, I closed it again and stuffed it back into my pocket. Jack was silent for a moment.

"OK," she said finally, "So you are. But..."

She gestured helplessly. I shrugged. "What?" I asked.

She shook her head. "It's... I don't know. It feels... you're eighteen, Alex."

"I know that."

"You can't marry when you're eighteen?"

"Why not? It's completely legal. I don't need anybody's permission."

"But... you're so young. You should..."

"See the world? Travel? Have some adventures before I settle down?"

Jack grimaced. She had seen me grow more and more quiet over the years, each and every mission tainting me more, drawing me further and further into the shady world or espionage. Only she could see through the façade I kept, the happy smiles, the jokes. I knew I wasn't the only one who felt helpless.

"You love her then," she said.

I looked at Teresa, now at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at us with a confused look on her face.

"What's not to love?" I asked.


	2. Part 2

Teresa was sitting at the table in our apartment, staring intently at the screen of her laptop. Every now and then she moved her mouse, clicked something and went back to staring. Other than that, she hadn't moved in the past two hours. That I knew of, anyway. I had gone out earlier to get some fresh air – an almost hopeless task in the current hot weather – and was now sitting in the window, one leg dangling outside, the other pulled up to my chest. I was hoping to catch some of the light breeze outside, but that seemed to be too much to ask for. Downstairs, on the street, everything was mostly quiet. A car passed by, a mother with two screaming kids walked down the street, looking exhausted. The rest of the world had wisely retreated into their houses, where it was if not cool, then at least out of the burning sun.

I looked at Teresa again. Next to her computer was the external hard drive I had used to copy all of professor Lucardi's files on. Thousands of them. She was scanning through them, to see if she could get anything useful from it. A copy was on it's way to MI6, courtesy of the British embassy in Paris.

Suddenly she looked up, straight at me.

"Are you watching me work?" she asked.

I shrugged and looked outside again. She pushed her chair back, got up and approached me, to put a kiss on my hair. It made me smile. I turned and before she could go back to her work, grabbed her by the waist.

"It's to hot for work," I said.

She struggled for a moment, laughing a little, but then relaxed into my embrace.

"I want to get this done," she said, "I need to put an end to all of this, the charade. And I can't do anything tonight, with that dinner at professor Lucardi's house."

"You should have let me get this in the beginning," I said illogically, "Then you would've had two months."

She rolled her eyes. "You can't just go and steal somebody's data on their computer," she said, "Besides, I wouldn't have known what to look for anyway."

"I'm a spy," I pointed out, "I can do anything."

The moment I said it, I knew I had made a mistake. Disappointment washed over her face. Frantically, I racked my brain to come up with something.

"But not for much longer," I said, pulling her even closer and kissing her passionately. She responded, and for a while I thought she had forgotten the conversation. Not so, as became apparent when we finally broke free. She stared into my eyes, searching for something.

"Do you really want to give it up?" she asked, "Are you sure about this?"

I buried my face in her hair. "Yes, I'm sure," I said, "For you, I'd do anything."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt a strange elation go through me. I hadn't actually said I loved her – neither of us had made any statements in that respect – but it was close enough. She noticed it too, because she moved back to look at me, a big grin on her face. I leaned forward to kiss her again when her mobile started playing.

We both froze, and then started to laugh. She stepped back and took the call, turning away from me and walking to the other end of the room. I heard her soft voice, speaking English, but I didn't really pay much attention to what she was saying. I watched her smile and make small gestures with her hands when emphasizing a point, her face scrunching up when listening intently to the person talking – her mother, I guessed.

I wondered what her family would think of me, if they would hate me. Teresa had sworn to me that they wouldn't, and I had talked to her mother once on the phone – she sounded friendly, if a little suspicious – but she also had a big brother. Whom I wasn't afraid of physically, but who could probably make things very difficult for me.

I remembered the serious look in Jack's eyes, when she had managed to corner me one last time that day in Paris. She had silenced me with that look of hers, that look that had managed to silence me since I was seven, and had basically told me to rethink my plan.

"She's nice, Alex, really. I like her. A lot. But I'm worried. Ever since you pushed Sabina away, you've been... I don't know. Distant. Like nothing could touch you ever again, like you had sworn to never love anybody ever again. And I don't see..." She looked me in the eyes, scrutinizing me, and I had no idea what she was looking for. "I don't... see it."

Then she stepped back, smiled, and said, "But I could be wrong." She glanced at Teresa, who by that point was getting a little annoyed by our secrecy, knowing full well we were talking about her. Jack leaned forward, and just as the train came into the station, said, "She seems to like romance. Make it special."

And that was why, a week after buying it, the small black box with the ring was still burning in my pocket.

* * *

I parked the small car on the driveway, a little to the side and facing the exit, as usual. Only when we got out of the car, I realized what I had been doing, namely ensuring a quick getaway, and I smiled ruefully. Teresa didn't notice, however, so I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and together we walked to the ornate front door.

The professor's house was big, but not ostentatious. A central hallway, a large room on the left and in the back a kitchen. To the right, more rooms, an office probably, a storage room. I took in the layout of the house – what I could see of it – as we were graciously greeted by Mrs Lucardi and her husband, and were led to the dining room. Julie and Gaston were already there, as were several other researchers and two students professor Lucardi had taken a special interest in. They sat us down next to each other, for which I was grateful. I quickly surveyed the table, taking in everybody's position, and then locked eyes for a moment with a man sitting on the other end.

It was as if I was in a bubble. Sound became strangely distant and echoing, a woman's laughter ringing in my ears but not really registering. His cold blue eyes bore into mine, expressionless, and I knew there was no expression in mine either. In that instant, that second, we seemed to size each other up, instantly recognizing a predator when we saw one. And then it was gone, and the rest of the room came back onto focus. I looked up at Teresa, who was still in the process of sitting down next to me and smiled at her. Then I glanced back at the man on the other end of the table and saw that I had been mistaken.

For an almost imperceptible moment, I had thought Yassen Gregorovitch had been sitting there, staring at me. And even though the man looked a little bit like him, he was in fact quite different. He smiled at me.

"What's the matter?" Teresa asked.

"Nothing," I said, and then, nodding at the man, "He reminded me of somebody, that's all."

Julie, who had sat down across from us seemingly heard me, because she asked, "Who?"

At that point, professor Lucardi stepped in, positioned himself next to the unknown man and said, "My dear friends, colleagues, students..." He paused and looked at me, "... _boyfriends_ of colleagues, I would like to introduce you to Mr Maier here, who is representing one of our contributors."

Suddenly, I had a bad feeling about this. I casually looked at Maier as the professor quickly said all our names, pausing at mine to explain who I was. He looked up at his host, nodded friendlily at everybody upon the introduction and then proceeded to chat with his neighbour, who happened to be Julie. I pretended not to take too much notice of him during dinner and tried not to show my growing anxiety. It wasn't something I could put my finger on, it was just there. All my senses were screaming to get the hell out of there, to take Teresa and the information and just run. All because a business man sitting across from me looked just a little bit like the man who had murdered my uncle.

Usually, my instincts were right.

After dinner, I tried to get to Teresa and have her make an excuse, but I was cornered by Mrs Lucardi, who wanted to know all about what it was like to be in the army. I answered her questions to the best of my ability, given that I was hardly paying attention to what she was saying and trying to signal Teresa (Later I found out that she had had a son in the French army who died). Teresa, however, was talking to Maier, and by the way she was shooting glances at me, I had a pretty good idea what he was trying to do. He was hearing her out, about me.

Which meant, that somehow he was suspicious of me. And the reason to be suspicious of me was the same one I had to be suspicious of him. He had recognized me somehow, from somewhere, as I recognized him. From where, I didn't know.

Mrs Lucardi said something. I turned and looked at her blankly. She frowned, but repeated her question.

"Where will you be sent after you get back from your leave?" she asked.

"Oh," I said, "Afganistan."

She shook her head, looking sad. "Quelle horreur," she said, "What do your parents think of that?"

"I don't have any. Excuse me."

I left her standing there, looking a little surprised, and quickly made my way over to Teresa. I butted right into their conversation with a 'can I talk to you for a moment', and dragged her away. Maier looked at us and sipped his wine, looking amused.

"What did he want?" I asked her as soon as we were somewhat out of earshot from everybody, "What was he asking?"

Teresa looked at me nervously. "He was asking about you. What you did for a living. How long I had known you. How we had met. I didn't like it."

Me neither. I hesitated for a moment. Then, "We have to leave. Now. Go to Mrs Lucardi, say you don't feel good."

To her credit, she didn't question me. I watched her go to Mrs Lucardi and start talking, then the worried face of the woman as she grabbed Teresa's arm and gently led her to the door, Teresa's reassuring face and words that she would be all right, and then I followed her out into the hallway. Once there, I wrapped my arm around her shoulder, hastily said a goodbye to the professor who had come out as well, and walked out the door.

"Leaving so soon?"

I froze in the doorway and turned. Maier was standing there, still with that amused look on his face and still having a glass of wine in his hands. I doubted he had drunk any of it though.

"Yes," I said, "She's not feeling well."

"A shame." He turned to Teresa. "I'm sorry to hear that, my dear. I hope you will feel better soon."

A shiver ran through Teresa's body. I tightened my grip on her. Maier turned to me again.

"Drive safely," he said, "Mr.... I'm sory, I'm such a klutz. I forgot your name."

"Fisher," I said, "Alex Fisher."

"Ah," he nodded, "Of course. Fisher."

He raised his glass in salute, turned, and went back into the living room. I turned again to leave, and caught a glimpse of Mr and Mrs Lucardi, him looking surprised and slightly worried, her looking bewildered. Then we rushed outside and drove away, leaving the brightly lit house and its occupants to their own devices.

After reaching the village, I turned south, determined to put as much distance between us and Maier as possible. The main reason I'm still alive after all is that I listen to what my instinct tells me to do, and right now it was screaming at me to run. So I did.

"Where are we going," Teresa asked.

"South," I said, peering through the windscreen to make sure we stayed on the dark road.

"But I need my things," she said, "We can't just run..."

"Yes we can," I said, "We have to."

"But why? Why now? What happened back there, who is that man, Maier?"

"I don't know," I said, "But he looks familiar. I think my cover is blown. And that's why we need to get out of here. Scorpia is not to be taken lightly."

"Yes," she said, "Scorpia. That was what Blunt was talking about, I still haven't got a clue who they are. How come you're so sure Maier is Scorpia?"

"Just a hunch," I said, "A feeling. But he knows who I am, I'm sure of it. Maybe he saw me at that Scorpia training camp a few years back..."

"You were in a Scorpia training camp?" she asked, quickly grabbing the hand hold on the door when I made a particularly sharp turn.

I didn't answer that one, but concentrated on my driving for a while.

"Blunt said they're terrorists," she said.

"They are," I said, "Among other things."

"What other things?"

I jerked the wheel and made the turn, barely. Teresa squeaked. I mumbled an apology, but didn't slow down. The road was very dark, and there were no villages in the vicinity. A bright line in the distance signified the proximity of the motorway, but that didn't help us here.

"They're for hire," I said, "Big things, mostly. Assassinations. Sabotage. Espionage."

A straight stretch of road, as far as the beams of the small rental car could reach. I floored the accelerator.

"And you were in their training camp?" she asked.

Why did she always manage to focus on the heart of the matter? "Yes," I said curtly.

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" I asked, working the clutch and shifting gear to slow us down for the upcoming turn.

She didn't answer that immediately. I could almost hear her mind work, reaching conclusions at and alarming speed.

"Have you ever killed somebody?" she asked.

This wasn't going to work. There was no way for me to keep driving like this while trying to come up with answers in such a way that she wouldn't hate me. I slowed down to a legal ninety kilometres an hour and looked at her.

"Can we talk about this some other time," I said, "I really need to concentrate here."

My non-answer was of course an answer in itself, and I saw her wince.

"Teresa," I said, placing a hand on her knee, "Please. I said I'd give it all up for you and I will. But right now, I have to get us out of here in a hurry, or we won't _have_ any future and this whole conversation becomes academic."

She seemed to collect herself. The fact that she didn't push my hand away gave me hope that I could still salvage this.

"All right," she said, placing her hand on mine, "But we still need to go back to the apartment."

"No."

"Alex..."

"No. And that's final."

"I left my notes there."

I stared at her for so long that she became nervous and started gesturing that I should watch the road.

"Do you really need them?" I asked.

"Yes. I do. I've been writing down which files contain the information we need."

"On paper?"

"I always work on paper."

"And you can't reproduce this from memory?"

"Alex, these files have ten digit numbers for file names. And there are thousands of them. I would need to go through all of them again, and all my work for the past week will have been for nothing."

"And a text search..."

"Can't search text in a picture. They're graphs."

I kept going, gripping the wheel tightly. My cover was blown. Maier would no doubt inform Scorpia, they'd be on their way already. Scorpia... I suppressed a shiver. They had been out for my blood for a while, but they had stopped when they came under new management. Crossing them again would probably make me a target again. And if I was a target, then so was Teresa. We needed to disappear.

"They'll know we're on to them," she said.

She had me there. The whole point of the operation had been to discretely find out if Lucardi was somehow developing some sort of weapon for Scorpia. If they found the hard drive and Teresa's notes in the apartment, they'd know and they'd move the research to another place, and we'd have to go and find them again. It'd be better if they thought we hadn't found anything.

"Come on," she said, "Maier is still at the Lucardis. They couldn't have gotten to our apartment this fast, could they?"

I sighed. Maybe not. Slowing down even further, mentally turning the map in my head to match the direction we were going and where to take a turn if we wanted to go back, I turned to look at her.

"All right," I said, "We'll chance it. And then we make a run for it."

* * *

I approached the apartment on foot. I had parked the car in the street that ran parallel to ours, and had then used the alley ways to get to the back to our building. I didn't dare using the main entrance, but instead simply climbed up the fire escape and entered our floor through the door that wasn't supposed to be open from this side, but that I had rigged when we first came to live here.

Once inside, I quickly rushed to the door to our apartment, stuck in the key and opened it carefully, letting it swing all the way open. Gun in hand, I slid inside, listening to the sounds of the building. Everything was quiet. It was one AM, people were sleeping. I touched the door with my foot and it closed again. The apartment was empty.

I lowered the gun, placed it on the table and stepped up to the window to look outside. The street was deserted. Cars were parked along the curb, moonlight reflecting on the wind shields. I scrutinized each and every one of them, but you can't really tell if there's anybody inside watching the building in the dark.

The floorboard cracked.

I knew that crack, it was a place close to the bathroom. I usually stepped around it when going to the bathroom in the middle of the night to avoid waking Teresa. I hadn't checked the bathroom.

A million things went through my head as I spun around, crouched, and launched myself into the direction I knew my assailant would be. One of them was berating myself for carelessness. Another was that I knew this tiny apartment blindfolded, and whoever was currently trying to move out of my way by sidestepping me obviously hadn't expected my quick reaction and had underestimated me. And there all the advantages I had ended.

I managed to hit him in the stomach, but instead of doubling over like most people would, he merely grunted and lashed out with his foot, hitting me in the thigh. A full hit would have paralysed me, but as it was I kept moving, and he only managed to cause a sharp pain to shoot up my leg. I staggered backwards and he came at me with a little more caution.

From what I could see of him in the dark, he seemed to be an average man, average built, brownish hair, nondescript face. He was fast though, as I found out when he suddenly jumped at me and tried to slam his fist into my face. I managed to partially block him, but hit my head against the wall anyway. He grabbed my throat and started to squeeze while pinning me against the wall.

Not good. I struggled for a moment, feeling the pressure on my windpipe increase. If I didn't do anything soon, he'd crush it and then he'd get to watch me die, suffocating because no air could ever reach my lungs again. Not an option.

I stopped my struggle and went limp. It didn't fool him of course, he knew I was faking it, but that wasn't why I stopped. I feebly moved my arms a little, as if flailing aimlessly, and then reached behind my back where I had not only stuffed the gun earlier, but also a knife. I took it out and gutted him.

Immediately, the pressure on my neck subsided. In the dark, I could see his eyes go wide in surprise and pain. I yanked the knife up, yanked it out and then stabbed him again, in the chest this time. Then I pushed him away from me and he fell backwards, landing on the rug with a thump. I took a step back, bumped into the wall and let myself slide down to the floor, gasping for air, feeling dizzy.

If anybody thinks killing is easy, think again. Sure, I had caused the deaths of a number of people, had shot people even, but I had never stabbed somebody. I stared at him, laying on the floor, still clutching the now sticky knife in my hand, and started to shake. This was killing from up close. This was actually reach and yank the life out of somebody. Suddenly, I felt sick. I scrambled to my feet and rushed to the toilet to puke my guts out.

I so needed to get out of this business.

When I had managed to recover somewhat and my brain had started functioning again, I set about cleaning the place up. I had no idea if he was there on his own or if he had a buddy waiting for him in a car downstairs, but I wasn't going to wait and find out. I needed to leave, as soon as possible, but I couldn't leave him here.

Quickly grabbed Teresa's purple backpack, grabbed her laptop and the external hard drive and then unceremoniously stuffed in all loose laying papers that even remotely looked like notes. She had told me what to look for, but I ignored her rather detailed instructions in the motel room where I had left her. I simply took everything.

When I was done, I surveyed the room, checking to see if I had missed something, and then walked to the window and peered outside again. Nothing was different, nothing had moved. I moved back, grabbed some clean clothes from the closet and stuffed them in the backpack with the rest. I had some trouble closing it, cursing the zip until I just gave up and left it open. I put it by the door.

Only then I went to check on the man on the floor. He was quite dead, his glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. I quickly felt his pockets and retrieved an ID in the name of Francois Boulanger, which meant absolutely nothing. I also found a wad of cash, which I stuffed into my pockets. No car keys.

I stared down at him for a minute. No car keys, which indeed meant he probably had a buddy waiting in a car downstairs. Who would get impatient, and check up on him at some point. I pocketed the ID, scrambled back and rolled him into the carpet he had conveniently fallen on, saving me the trouble of wiping his blood from the floor. I got up, took a deep breath, heaved him up and worked him up on my shoulders. Staggering a little, I walked out of the apartment, down the hallway to the fire escape. I opened the door, checked the alley and the windows overlooking it briefly, and then let him drop. He fell down with a thud, next to the large metal wheelie bin we used to dump our waste in.

I looked at it for a moment, considering it, but then dismissed it as being too dangerous. I couldn't risk him being found there, so I went back inside, retrieved the backpack and did a quick survey of the apartment to see if there was anything in need of straightening. It looked quiet and peaceful once more. There was no sign a man had died here. I closed the door carefully, thanked whoever was responsible for letting my neighbours be heavy sleepers, and left the building for the last time.

* * *

It was when I had disposed of the body – stripped him off all his clothes and dumped him in the Seine way west of Paris, so with some luck he'd float all the way to the sea and good luck to anybody trying to lift fingerprints off his body this way – and had changed clothes as to not alarm Teresa with my blood stained shirt, that my body finally gave in. I sat in my car, hands on the wheel, and couldn't get myself to move.

A glance at the clock on the dashboard learned that it was almost four AM, and I was tired. The desire to just let my head rest on my hands for a moment was almost overwhelming, and I had to fight to keep my eyes open. I sat there for a long while, trying to get a grip on my swirling emotions, until I finally managed to move my hand to the key and start the car. I drove all the way back to the sleazy motel next to the motorway south of Paris where Teresa was sleeping alone in the king size bed, and only the thought of laying down next to her soon kept me awake.

When I arrived there an hour later, I parked the car at the back of the hotel, let myself in through the back door of which I had conveniently stolen the key earlier that evening, and almost didn't make it up the stairs. I fumbled with the key to our room, leaning my head against the wood panelling of the door and then suddenly fell inside when the door was opened from the inside. Teresa caught me before I could fall to the floor.

"Alex!" she exclaimed.

She dragged me inside and let me fall on the bed, which felt nice and soft. She said something, started tugging at my feet but I was too far gone to realise she was probably removing my muddy shoes. As soon as she let go, I rolled to my side and simply let go of the world.

* * *

I woke up slowly. My fuzzy brain had trouble connecting somehow, and it took me a while to realize that the crunching sound I was hearing was actually somebody eating an apple. I opened my eyes and stared at the wallpaper for a while, and then finally turned my head to look at Teresa. She was sitting at the small table that was squeezed in between the bed and the wardrobe, looking at the screen of her laptop. I watched her profile for a while, until she noticed I was awake.

"Hey, sleepyhead," she said happily, "Back in the land of the living?"

I moved, rolled to my back and groaned from the aching muscles in my arms. Dead people are heavy.

"Yeah," I croaked, "What time is it?"

"Past ten," she said, "We have to leave soon or we'll have to pay for another night." She held up a croissant. "Want one? Got it from a bakery down the street this morning."

"Yes, please," I said, working myself up into a sitting position.

She handed me the bread and I took a small bite. I wasn't really hungry. The memory of how the knife had simply cut into him, the feeling of warm blood on my hands effectively killed any desire to eat. I put it down.

"I've mailed the names of the files to the address Blunt gave me for contacting MI6," she said.

I stared at her blankly. Her smile faded.

"That's all right, isn't it? I mean, this is hardly sensitive information, it's just a bunch of numbers..."

I rubbed my eyes and tried to think, which was hard because of the throbbing headache. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. Carefully, I brought my hand to the back of my head and sure enough, a sensitive swelling was there. I winced.

"It's fine, I suppose," I said, "You're right, it's just a bunch of numbers."

She closed the lid of her computer, turned, and placed her elbows on her knees, watching me. To appease her, I took another bite of the croissant and tried to pretend it didn't taste like cardboard.

"Now tell me what happened last night," she said.

Two possibilities here. Tell her the truth, and then try to convince her that this was the last time, that I would never kill again, that I would leave MI6 and go back to school and have a normal life with her. She might believe me. Or I could lie.

"Nothing much," I said, "Except the apartment was being watched. Had major trouble getting in and out without being seen."

I'm a pretty good liar. I had expected her question of course, so I had prepared the answer, which made the decision to lie easier. I knew I could pull it off. I glanced at her once while talking, but let my eyes wander through the room for the rest of it, knowing that staring her directly in the eyes would give her the impression I was trying to hide the fact that I was lying. I casually told her about driving around to detect possible tails (true, I just left out that I was also carrying a gruesome cargo), told her about the car parked in front of the apartment (also totally true, although I hadn't identified the actual car), and finally how I had made it back to the motel, completely exhausted.

I must have told a pretty good story, because she came and sat next to me, and then things heated up for a bit.

* * *

"We really should get going," I said later, much later, glancing at the alarm clock net to the bed. Eleven thirty AM, it read. "Or we will really have to pay for another day."

Teresa popped herself up on one arm and leaned on my chest, but moved back when I couldn't suppress the wince. She pulled the sheets back a little and looked at me.

"Where did all these bruises come from?" she asked, "They weren't there before..."

"Got into a little bit of a fight on my last assignment," I said casually, "Takes a while for a bruise to show up. I've been stiff the whole week."

"Fight? But you said everything went OK?"

"It did. I just got a few punches."

She frowned, and moved away a little. I let my hand, with which I had intended to touch her face, fall back on the mattress.

"Alex..." She looked down, letting her hair fall in front of her face. Then she looked up again. "Please don't lie to me."

"I didn't lie. I just left it out because I knew you would worry. It was no big deal."

"That's what you always say! But it is a big deal! How can this not be a big deal!"

I sighed and closed my eyes. "Teresa please. I told you I'd quit. In fact, I'm quitting. Right now. Come here, watch me."

I let myself roll out of the bed, sat down at the table and opened her laptop. I quickly typed in the password, opened my mail box and started typing. Teresa came and stood next to me.

Blunt – I quit – bye, Alex Rider.

"Rider's your real name?" was the only thing she asked.

I nodded. "Let's leave," I said, "Let's go to... Florence. Have you ever been to Florence? It's beautiful. And then we can drive all the way to Rome. Have you ever seen the Colusseum? It's huge, and you won't believe..."

She placed a finger on my lips to silence me and smiled.

"How about Venice?" she asked.

I shuddered. "No. Not Venice."

* * *

"Here," she said, "Let's stop here."

I was driving at that moment, and it was getting late. We had driven the whole day, taking turns, in a general southern direction. The first part of the trip I had spent looking for somebody tailing us, until Teresa had called me paranoid and had ordered me to stop, at which point I continued my survey of the road behind us a little more discretely. We had stopped for lunch, then again for dinner and it was close to nine in the evening.

"Roanne?" I said.

"Yes," she said, "It's a pretty name for a town. Let's stop here."

I was tired, so I didn't protest but simply took the nearest exit, drove into the rather boring looking town and parked the car in front of the first hotel that didn't look too expensive. After we took a brief look at our room, accompanied by the manager of the hotel, suspicious because we didn't have any luggage, we fled outside and went for a walk to see where we had ended up.

It was already dark, and we strolled down the empty streets, looking at the brightly lit but closed shops. She commented on everything and anything, and finally insisted on calling her parents that she was all right. I listened to her side of the conversation, and shot her a warning look when she was about to tell them where we were. She rolled her eyes at me, but refrained from telling them anyway. After she had hung up, we were quiet for a while, me contemplating the likelihood that Scorpia was bugging her parent's phone and whether or not to tell her that, and, from the look on her face, she about whether to tell me to stop being paranoid. In the end, neither of us said anything.

"Let's go shopping tomorrow," Teresa said, obviously trying to change the subject that was on both our minds, "I feel dirty. And oh, look at that beautiful church..."

I agreed easily, happy to be walking around with my arm wrapped around her shoulder, feeling once again very protective of her. Her enthusiasm was refreshing, and for a little while I could pretend to see the world through her eyes, look at the beauty of things, not trying to categorize sniper positions on every building. I should have. I wasn't aware of it at the time, of course, but fate was catching up with me.

* * *

That night I slipped out of our room and left the hotel. The still warm summer air laid like a blanket over the town, and our room lacked a functioning air conditioner. Teresa had managed to fall asleep anyway, and I had watched her for a while, trying to make a decision. I thought about how relaxed she looked, peaceful, sweat trickling down her skin. I thought about how brilliant she was, and how lucky I was for her to even notice me. And then I thought about the splash of the body in the river.

"She's a romantic," Jack had said.

Driven by a sudden feeling of urgency, I walked through the quiet town. Somewhere, a church struck two AM, and right after it finished another church did the same. I walked swiftly, despite the warm night air. I knew where I was going. I had a plan.

The museum came into view and I stopped for a moment to survey it. In front of it, a highly modern glass entrance, then a courtyard and then the old building, holding artefacts varying from arts to Roman remains to pottery. A local museum. Teresa had stared at it in delight, and had said she wanted to visit it.

She was a sucker for museums. I don't really remember how many of them we visited in Paris, but she always wanted to go in. And then she'd start telling me about the things she saw, the things she knew about them, and reading the cards, checking her facts. She knew an incredible amount of things and she had an amazing memory. I trailed her, mostly, listening to her, watching the amused glint in her eyes whenever she found something unexpected.

She also called the Mona Lisa boring.

Shaking my head at the memory, smiling a little, I made quick work of the museum's alarm system and entered, making sure I didn't leave any traces. I wandered through the museum for a while, trying to figure out what would interest her the most and finally settled on a collection of Roman jewellery. Perfect.

I opened the showcase, placed the ring next to an ugly bronze one and placed the card next to it. Then I closed the lid, admired my work for a moment and then made my way back to the window I had come through. When I closed it behind me, I suddenly felt watched.

The prickling in my neck caused an almost imperceptible break in my swift movement. Casually, I turned away from the window and walked along the side of the courtyard in front of the museum. My eyes swept the grounds, the buildings, the glass reception area, but I saw no movement in the deep shadows of the night. The feeling subsided somewhat and I chided myself for being paranoid. We were in a peaceful town in the middle of France, nobody knew where we were, nobody had a reason to watch me, other than to prevent me from breaking into the museum, and if they had wanted to do that, they'd have raised the alarm long ago.

Of course, paranoia had kept me alive all these years.

Dismissing that thought, I swiftly made my way back to the hotel and crawled back into bed next to Teresa.

* * *

We woke up late, managed to convince the manager of the hotel to let us have breakfast anyway and then left, holding hands. She looked refreshed, not as tired as the day before and I felt better too, even if I got little sleep again. She dragged me into the first shop that had women's clothes, and she bought a pair of pants, two t-shirts and shorts. I refused to follow her into the underwear section, instead wandering around a little, and finally buying a new t-shirt too. When we left the store, I tried to gently guide her to the museum.

My excitement grew. This was it. I was going to do it. I was going to formally ask her to marry me, even though we had only met two months ago, even though she thought my job was objectionable, even though compared to her, I was severely lacking in both cultural and scientific education. I knew she would make me a better person, she'd keep me on track. In return, I'd protect her from harm, always.

We rounded the corner of the Rue Anatole France, the street where the museum was, and I glanced at her nervously. She noticed something was up, because she raised her eyebrows at me. Somehow, the expression on my face must have convinced her that whatever it was, it was something nice, because she smiled at me.

We went up to the glass reception area, and I bought two tickets. Teresa was already staring at a leaflet, looking interested. The cashier waved us through, saying something like we were the only ones in the museum, which was only natural since it was again ridiculously hot outside. Nobody in their right mind would go to a museum on a day like this. Perfect.

We traversed the courtyard, and I had to restrain myself not to pull her along and rush straight to the Roman exhibition. I remember how the sun shone mercilessly down on us, the quiet of the place, I remember the look of anticipation on her face when I turned to look at her. She smiled, stepped forward and hugged me.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?" I asked.

She just smiled. I grinned, stepped back and started turning towards the steps of the entrance again.

"Guh," she said.

Everything was still quiet, the courtyard was still peaceful. I started turning back in surprise. She stumbled, and I caught her. Next to me, a chip splintered off the stone banister of the stairs, and I became aware of a stinging pain in my right arm.

Instinct took over. Holding her close to me, I dragged her to the questionable safety behind the banister, then up the steps and into the darkness of the museum. A bullet hit the door frame just as I went through it, but since I had become a moving target, moving erratically from left to right instead of in a straight line, none of them hit. Inside, I moved out of the sunlight and into the shadow. Quickly, I checked the windows, but I could see only sky and trees through them. I was out of his line of sight.

Only then did I put her down on the floor, letting myself drop on my knees next to her. Her eyes were open, unseeing. Her chest was one big bloody mess. Gently, I rolled her over and checked her back. A small round hole, right next to her spinal cord. Whoever had shot her, had known his business. He had known exactly where to hit her, had waited for the right angle, and had pulled the trigger when one bullet would have killed us both if I hadn't moved so suddenly.

I let her down again and straightened her a little. Then, because it unnerved me, I closed her eyes. She almost looked asleep now, if you refrained from looking at her chest, which was kind of hard to do. I touched her forehead, thinking about the great mind that had now stopped, and wiped a stray strand of hair out of her face.

Somehow, I should feel something.

Quick footsteps brought me back to the present, and I blinked. I hadn't realized my mind had wandered, thinking about walking along the Seine, explaining to her that she had to at least act as if I was her boyfriend if we were going to pull this off, about lunch in the park with wine out of a carton, about her excitement whenever she discovered something new.

"Mon Dieu... Q_u'est ce qui s'est passé ici_?"

I looked up. A man in a black suit was standing there, wringing his hands. The hair on his balding head was comically combed over the bald spot in the middle, and for a moment I wanted to laugh. I managed to stop myself though, because I didn't want to appear hysterical.

"She's dead," I said, "Elle est mort."

I got up, keeping a careful eye on the door and the windows. Then I looked down on Teresa, absent-mindedly stroking my wet t-shirt. I looked down, and saw that it was covered in blood. Most of it hers, but some of it definitely mine, judging by the stinging pain in my arm and the side of my chest.

"You are 'urt," the man said, obviously the manager, not some museum guard.

A wave of nausea washed over me, but I suppressed it. Suddenly, I grabbed the man's arm and dragged him away from the still form of Teresa. No, not Teresa, she wasn't there any more. Just an empty shell, a corpse, a collection of meat and bones. That what had made Teresa Teresa, her brilliant mind, her smile, her passion, that was all gone. I rushed to the stairs, and, when the manager started protesting and resisting, simply turned around and stared. That silenced him.

On the second floor, at the Roman exhibition, I walked directly to the showcase where I had planted the ring the night before. It was still there, gleaming next to the old and weathered Roman artefacts. I let go of the manager, placed my hands on the showcase and stared down at it.

I wasn't sure what I was doing here. I think, initially, I had planned to get it back, to hold on to it, but now, looking at it, I didn't know what to do. I didn't really need it any longer, taking it with me was useless. Better it stayed where it was.

I shifted my feet. My hand almost slipped from the showcase, and I noticed I had left a bloody print on the glass. Behind my back, the manager was slowly backing away from me.

"Stay right where you are," I said, not bothering to repeat it in French.

Painfully, I straightened. My arm was throbbing, the side of my chest was burning, and I felt a slow trickle of something warm trickle down my side and right arm. The bullet that had gone right through Teresa had managed to do only minor damage to me, nicking both my chest and my arm. I turned around. The manager had stopped moving, looking at me fearfully. Briefly, I wondered what it was about me that scared him so much, but then I dismissed it. The most important thing right now was that he seemed to be inclined to do whatever I told him to.

* * *

A year later, the warm rain is slowly soaking me. Cars drive by, splashing the water up from the road, people with umbrellas look down at the ground, bend on getting inside a soon as possible.

Somebody enters the glass reception of the museum, coming from the courtyard that separates the reception from the eighteenth century building that contains the collections. A middle aged man with a black suit and a balding head. He speaks to the cashier for a moment, and then looks outside. I don't move, and he just stares at me. Then he turns around and leaves. He has seen me, knows I'm checking up on him, and he's going to make sure the ring stays right where it is. I feel no satisfaction in that, no triumph. It's just the way it is.

They had found us through Teresa's mobile. My mistake. I should have realized that the only thing they had to do was access the phone company's databases and check the last known coordinates of it. Every mobile can be tracked that way, it's a simple triangulation from the three nearest phone towers. Scorpia, being who they are, has access to any information they want, either by bribing or threatening the phone company employees. They pinpointed our position with an accuracy of less than a hundred meters. So in a way, it's my fault she's dead.

I watch the museum for a little while longer, but somehow I seem to loose purpose. The manager has seen me, the ring will still be there as a strange sort of tribute to the person who died there, and if my leaving the ring in that museum instead of taking it with me seems twisted, then so be it. I get up, glance at the museum one last time and then turn around and leave. I'm on my way to South Africa, another assignment, another job to be done. Life goes on.

We all have to live with our mistakes. Mine was thinking I could stop doing what I do best, and live a normal life together with an incredibly smart woman. Have a normal job. Children maybe, some day. Thinking that cost her her life. I don't need the ring to remind me what she meant to me, and leaving it there, for all to see and wonder what the card next to it means, satisfies some strange need in me to honour her.

Not because I loved her.

But because I didn't.

* * *

_I know I said I'd update this 'later', but I got distracted by some other stories and then I fell asleep (not because of the stories, but because I was tired). Thanks for reading, whoever had the courage to read an Alex Rider romance story, and thanks to my reviewers:_

_Chaos Dragon, darkmoon666 and Emmy-loo_

_Roanne really exists, and so does the museum (it was that one that immediately came to mind when I read the challenge). It's been a while since I've been there though and there's only so much you can get from google earth, so I hope I didn't do the place any injustice._

_Thank you Chaos Dragon for bullying me into this, I mean graciously allowing me to enter your challenge/contest. (I won!)_

_And for the record, I do not use online translators. The French is horrid because _my_ French is horrid. I'm trying though._


End file.
